The Death Lords, Volumes 1-3: His Wild Desire, Her Secret Pleasure, Their Private Need (19 page)

“Of course.” I stand on shaky legs and wipe my hands down the front of my pants. As I walk toward the counter, Easy stares openly at me, making no attempt to disguise his interest. The water is sitting near his hand along with a plate of sandwiches. As I reach for it, he grabs my wrist. It takes little effort for him to pull me toward him. I end up between his long denim-clad legs, my face so close to his I can see that his teeth are white and even. For some lame reason that’s what comes out of my mouth.

“You have really nice teeth.”

His grin broadens so that I can see almost all of them. Easy has a wide, very expressive mouth. It matches the rest of him which is also big. I look at his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He could easily span my waist with his hand. I’d like to pick it up and place it on my body to see if I’m right.

“I’m glad you like them, Little Red.”

“Little Red?” Self-consciously I run a hand across my rather dull brown hair. Pippa, my boss at the library, has gorgeous red hair and is shaped like a fifties pinup model—big chest, tiny waist, awesome butt. I’m a board. I could wear a shirt unbuttoned to the waist and have zero hint of cleavage.

He tugs me closer until my legs hit the side of the barstool and then he straightens to his full height of six feet, four inches. His body rubs against the front of mine and something long and hard presses into my belly. The shock of it widens my eyes and stops my breathing.

“Little Red,” he confirms. There’s dark intent in his eyes that even a virgin can read. “Because you look good enough for a big bad wolf like me to eat.” His big hand sweeps from my wrist up to my neck and for a wicked, hot second, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me in the middle of the Brew Ha Ha with his grandma’s knitting club watching. To my conflicted dismay, he only squeezes my neck before dropping his hand and moving away. “If you want a visit to the den, strap the cuff around your wrist and come out to the granary. I’ll know that you’re ready for what we have to offer.”

Then he exits as quickly as he arrived, leaving me dazed, confused and turned on. The waitress, nineteen-year-old Tricia Merriweather, is fanning herself behind the counter.

“Girl, you are so lucky. I’d kill for one of those.”

My gaze drops to the counter where a leather cuff with the Death Lords emblem burned into the side rests against the wooden surface.

I run my finger around the smooth interior. It’s still warm.

“What it is?”

Tricia leans forward. “It’s a claiming cuff. If you put it on that means no other Death Lords can approach you.”

“And if I don’t?” I can’t take my eyes off the leather.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. No one I know has ever got one, but I’ve seen them around. I heard one girl say it means you can go to another club and no one will touch you because they’re afraid of getting beat up by the Death Lords. Basically it’s hellagood. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

My fingers curl around it as if trying to hide it from Tricia’s acquisitive gleam. “I didn’t realize it was transferable.”

“Probably not, but it’d give me an in. I’ve been trying to get into a Death Lords mash for a few years now. They’re pretty strict on the no high school rule but I graduated in May. They can’t keep me out for much longer.”

The look of determination on her face convinces me. She’ll be in the Death Lords club some day. How it turns out for her, though, I’m not sure because I don’t know what she’s looking for there. I don’t know what she’ll find there.

Those are the questions that swirl in my own head and so I don’t put on the wrist cuff. I tuck it into my pocket and deliver the water to the ladies. They all quiet as I approach and I know they’ve watched the whole scene. Probably everyone in the shop has and my mind flips from Easy and his curious use of “we” as in what “we have to offer” and what kind of story I’m going to have to cook up for Father when he catches wind of this.

Mrs. Wilkins tugs me down next to her and hands me my poor knitting attempt. We knit for a while—or Mrs. Wilkins knits while I wrestle with the yarn and needles.

“My grandson Van joined the Marines out of high school. We worried, as all families do, but he came back sunny as ever. He brought Michigan with him. Michigan has no family, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” I admit.

She nods. “Raised by foster families. He’s Van’s family now. They’re different but I love them both. They’re good boys. I know some don’t like that club they associate with but it’s not about the women or the liquor. It’s about belonging, no different than what we’re doing here.” She waves a hand toward the other ladies who merely nod. Apparently for all the gossip about the club, they don’t appear to disapprove of it. “People congregating together with common interests has always been a thing. Doesn’t make them wrong for doing it. ‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.’ ”

“First Corinthians,” I respond automatically.

“That’s right, dear.” Mrs. Wilkins shifts away and engages Mrs. C in some talk about the newly released Nora Roberts book while the claiming cuff burns a hole in my pocket. There’s an opportunity for something magical to happen and it’s there for me to try if I have even an ounce of courage to reach forward.

Annie

I don’t have to think up a fake story for Father. He never mentions an encounter between me and a Death Lord at the Brew Ha Ha and I certainly don’t bring it up. On Monday after a successful Sunday service and lunch with the organist’s family, he reminds me he’s going to Minneapolis for the next three days for a planning meeting. He’s helping to put together “Getting Closer with Your Pastor”, an interdenominational conference for Midwest preachers.

As if I could forget. The cuff hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser calls to me like the heart in Poe’s story and the fact that Father’s going to be gone has made it pulse even louder.

“Will there be Wednesday night service?”

“Yes, the Gardeners will handle it. Just print up the bulletin. Have you recorded the tithe money?”

“Yes, and taken it to the bank.”

“What about the bills this month?”

“Already taken care of.” Father keeps his expenses down by hiring me. He pays me a wage, of course, for serving as his secretary and keeping the church books. I admit I haven’t looked at my personal account balance for a while. I haven’t needed to. I don’t pay rent or the home utilities. Those are provided by the church. Clothes are kept to a minimum because we don’t want to appear like we are misusing parishioner funds. And before Easy showed up at the library, I had no occasion to be overly concerned about my wardrobe.

Tuesday night, however, I’m looking at the sad contents of my closet. I have jeans, flats, blouses and skirts. My skirts are A-line and hide everything from my knees to my butt. None of these items, either individually or in any combination, say hot biker chick. I went for the jeans and my favorite red top that has small puff sleeves and a scoop neck. In my ears, I hooked small silver hoops and from the bottom drawer, I retrieved the leather cuff.

It’s too large for me and the large silver clasp is surprisingly heavy. My heart beats a hundred miles per minute as I climb into my car and drive to the granary. Some say the granary looks like a milk carton but I think it looks like the Death Lords are raising their middle finger to anyone around who might object to their presence.

There are only a few bikes in the gravel parking lot in front of the old barn doors of the granary. I’ve never knocked on a barn door. Would anyone even hear me? As I approach, though, I notice a small side door is situated to the right. I knock, nervously, watching the leather band move up and down on my wrist.

I don’t have to wait long. The door opens and the broad body of Dakota Raleigh fills the door and by fill, I mean, I can’t hardly see beyond him. He was a big guy in high school, but since our graduation five years ago, he’s bulked up. And he has traded his high school leather bomber jacket for a thin leather vest proclaiming him to be part of the Death Lords.

“Annie Bloom?” He gawks, jaw slightly unhinged. Not quite the response I was hoping for but the one I expected. I hide a sigh.

“Yep, it’s me.”

He steps forward and closes the door behind him. I take a big step back so I’m not bowled over. “Yeah, we don’t take to solicitations and shit—I mean, stuff—like that here.”

“I’m not soliciting.”

“Yeah?” He quirks an eyebrow skyward.

“I’m here to see Easy.” I raise my wrist so that the leather band is obvious. He looks at the band, then at my face and does a double take as if the vision of the two together doesn’t fit in his head. Then a broad smirk spreads across his face.

“Shoulda known. It’s always the quiet ones.” He reaches behind him and opens the door. Standing back he extends his arm and gestures for me for me to enter. “Come on in.”

I step inside and get an immediate sense of motor oil and exhaust. It smells like a garage. The concrete floor even bears dark stains which I assume are from motorcycle leaks and not, well, blood or other waste. The granary appears cavernous from my viewpoint with the ceiling soaring at least two stories.

To cover my nervousness, I start talking. “You been a Death Lord a long time, Dakota?”

“Two years since I patched in. I go by Rider now.”

“Is that your road name?”

He smiles. “That’s right. Know your biker lingo.”

I feel hot-cheeked. “I work with Pippa Lang.”

“Judge’s old lady?”

There are a lot of terms used in bikerland I don’t like and old lady is one of them. “I don’t know how old she is, but yes, I think they’re dating.”

I follow him across the concrete to double doors that are hung on a rail system like you see in the fancy house magazines. He pushes one aside and we step into a large room. This time the floor’s concrete is polished. There’s a big fireplace at one end surrounded by several chairs and sofas and a long bar to my left. There aren’t many people here.

“Dating’s what we did in high school, Annie. You don’t date a Death Lord.”

He sounded so self-important; I can’t resist needling him. “Is the club your girlfriend now? Because I watched this Discovery special about a woman who was in love with the Eiffel Tower.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a smartass, Annie. I might have made a run at you.”

“Good thing you didn’t. I don’t know how to compete with a granary.”

He opens his mouth and then surprises me by barking out a laugh. “You’re okay. I was a little surprised to see you show up wearing a cuff because it didn’t seem like you’d be that kind of girl. But if you can give a little shit and take a little shit, it’s all good. Wait here.” He pats a bar stool.

Behind the bar is a burly guy, about six feet tall and sporting a full beard. He leans back against the counter behind him and his muscles are so large I think his one arm might be bigger than my head. Both arms are decorated with colorful tattoos—a woman’s face, what looks like a snake or some other scaled creature, a dark tribal band.

I slip onto the stool. “Hi,” I say weakly. All my earlier bravado is gone. It’s one thing to tease an old classmate who I knew from grade school when he threw paper clips at girls to get their attention and another to engage a guy who so clearly thought I didn’t belong. Not even his beard could hide the frown of disapproval.

“Is it the clothes?” I say finally.

“What about your clothes?” he says.

“I just wondered if it was my jeans or top that you didn’t like.”

“I don’t care about your clothes,” he grumbles.

“Then it’s my hair? I need bigger hair? I’m not very good with the round brush.”

“I got no idea what you’re chattering about, girl. Want a beer?”

“Sure.” I don’t like beer but I’m not about to say no to Grizzly Adams.

He reaches behind him, pulls out a bottle and pops off the cap without taking his eyes off me or turning around. The counter is really a cooler, I guess.

“Your skill is impressive.”

He grunts.

“Annie, what are you doing here?”

I spin around to find Michigan sporting the same cross-armed stance as the man behind the bar and a frown every bit as fierce.

“I came for the party,” I say uncertainly. Had I completely misread Easy’s invitation? Because the look in Michigan’s eyes is definitely not one of welcome.

“What party?”

“The mash,” I say uncertainly.

“No mash tonight,” interjects the bartender.

“She’s got a cuff,” Dakota, I mean Rider, says with amusement from his position behind Michigan’s right shoulder.

I raise my wrist again to display the leather wristband.

Michigan grabs my wrist and twists, not hard, but I can tell he’s taken by surprise. My dread and embarrassment deepens.

“Where’s Easy?” I ask. “He told me to…” I trail off because I can’t remember the exact words, only that he’d pressed his big
thing
into my stomach and told me to wear the cuff and show up here. I can’t really explain that and I can feel myself turning tomato-red just thinking about it.

Michigan doesn't answer but stands in front of me wrestling with something internally. He comes to some unspoken decision and tugs me off the chair. Since he leads me up a set of stairs and not out the doors, I find my tongue and ask, “Where are we going?”

“You’re wearing Easy’s wrist cuff. You want to know what it’s like to be with Easy, then come with me.”

On the second floor, he guides me down a long hallway. As we get close to the end, I hear heavy guitar music, a few male shouts, and a sporadic clap. We enter a medium sized room—larger than a living room but not as big as the open space downstairs.

At the far end there are two women dancing on a pole that appears bolted to the floor. The entire back wall is a mirror and in the reflection I can see everything—the women, the men watching them, and me, in the far back wearing a wide-eyed gaze. Behind me is the imposing figure of Michigan, arms folded with an unhappy expression on his face.

I creep forward, down the side of the room until I’m standing next to a sofa. I can’t take my eyes off the mirror.